


They Say I'm Fine, But I Feel Synthetic

by Amerihawk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Aromantic Natasha Romanov, Depression, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amerihawk/pseuds/Amerihawk
Summary: "He doesn’t know why he keeps it around, maybe as a memento to the glory days, the times when a cocky smile would spread across his face, crinkling his eyes. He looks at the two people in the picture, laughing and looking at each other with such hopeless longing in their eyes and he hates them. He hates everything about them.He hates how they can only see each other, even though there’s plenty going on around them.He hates how their eyes are glistening in the sun, dangerous and too much but yet not enough at the same time.And, most of all, he hates how he can’t bring himself to get rid of it."After a horrible event shakes Bucky's world to the core, he shuts everything and everyone out, including Steve. When Steve comes around again for explanations, Bucky isn't sure he can face what comes next and everything that comes with his truth.





	1. The Wet World Aches For A Beat Of A Drum

Bucky groans as he turns over in his bed, head throbbing from whatever the hell had happened the night before. Haunting shadows flash behind his eyes as he tries not to look directly at the obnoxious sliver of sunlight streaming through the miniscule slit in the curtain. Realising it’s a bad decision, Bucky turns the other way again, only to be faced with the photo frame he’s so desperately trying to avoid.

He doesn’t know why he keeps it around, maybe as a memento to the glory days, the times when a cocky smile would spread across his face, crinkling his eyes. He looks at the two people in the picture, laughing and looking at each other with such hopeless longing in their eyes and he hates them. He hates everything about them.

He hates how they can only see each other, even though there’s plenty going on around them.

He hates how their eyes are glistening in the sun, dangerous and too much but yet not enough at the same time.

And, most of all, he hates how he can’t bring himself to get rid of it.

So, every morning, Bucky’s eyes snap open (or flutter, depending on what happened the night before) and the fading demons of his nightmares would crawl back into their holes while the daylight hours provided Bucky with some temporary solace from the dark corners of his mind. Then they would rear their ugly heads just for a second as his eyes latch onto _those people_ , those fucking happy people with their perfect lives and their perfect other half. Because that’s what they are, each other’s other half. If Bucky were to cover one of them with his hand, the other would somehow look faded and weak, like a smudged lipstick stain on a mirror. Take his hand away though, and you get the full shape of the lips, clear and purposeful.

And that’s where the truth dies and the lies begin anew, at least for another day of pretending.

Bucky’s routine is an extremely simple one.

He drags himself out of bed.

Brushes his teeth.

Showers.

Climbs back into bed.

And that’s on a good day.

The bad days arrive when he gets unannounced visitors, like Natasha or Clint who seem to be acutely aware of his desires to be left alone yet ignore them completely. Clint sneaks in through his bedroom window, Natasha at least has the grace to break in via the front door. Sometimes, they come together. Like today’s attempt at being a normal, functioning human being and not a lifeless heart devoid of a beat.

This time, Clint drags Natasha in his way, the window.

Bucky slaps the pillow over his head as a car horn starts honking incessantly outside on the street. Gritting his teeth, he tries to block it out, the noise piercing his brain like a bullet, worsening his already throbbing headache.

The window shuts and Bucky can faintly hear Clint hissing something at Natasha.

A heavy weight crashes onto his mattress.

“Fuck off, Clint,” he murmurs, not even having to think twice. He can hear Clint’s obnoxious way of clamping his teeth down on his chewing gum and he wants to die. Natasha flicks the light on and Bucky realises he has no choice but to uncover himself and face the cruel world around him. Okay, so maybe the cruel world doesn’t seem so cruel in the light of his friends, but after they leave it’s up to him to navigate life. 

Whenever they come around, they make Bucky swear that once they leave he won’t go back to bed. He’ll have to manoeuvre his way around his emotions and find a way to be at peace with his aching heart. There’s nothing that he can actually, physically _do_ besides distract himself with alcohol or yoga, never both. Usually he just has to wait out the storm, until the thick tendrils of lightning won’t hit him and he can breathe again. Then again, Bucky hasn’t been able to breathe since _he_ left. And he doesn’t think he’ll be able to again.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Clint crows as Bucky removes the pillow from his face. “Or…not beauty,” he adds, remarking at Bucky’s appearance. He knows he looks like trash, the sheer amount of whiskey and vodka the night before should have told him that already. He doesn’t need Clint to tell him that.

“It’s two in the afternoon, James,” Nat adds. Bucky winces. She holds her hands up. “Sorry. Bucky.”

He can’t stand being called James. That’s what Steve used to call him. Before he fucked everything up. Not even the sound of it sends him in a spiral. It’s missing Steve’s regular inflection, but the word is still there, the syllables rolling from Nat’s tongue in the same way it used to Steve’s. And still, everything is too much.

“This is early for me,” Bucky comments hoarsely. He hates hearing himself speak on a morning, well afternoon, like this. He hasn’t spoken for at least twenty-four hours. He ordered pizza via the website, nobody came to visit him, he’s just been alone. Though now he’s being forced to socialise, to pretend like his entire world isn’t caving in around him and hasn’t been for the past five months. The walls are closing in on him and he’s wondering how he’s not been crushed senseless by the force of them. It’s a minor miracle. Though there are days that Bucky wonders if the world would be improved if the walls would simply compress him into a mush, better that than spending each day hurting, living with the pain of the past and the pain of what would never be again.

“True, but that’s not necessarily a good thing, Buck,” Clint replies, smirking. He doesn’t mind when Clint calls him Buck. The only other person who does is his sister, Rebecca and she hasn’t visited since Steve left. Not that Bucky has been much of a person to be around since that happened. He doesn’t blame her, if he’s honest. He doesn’t know exactly _why_ she stopped hanging around like she used to, but…let’s face it, he’s lying and he knows the exact reason she stopped hanging around like she used to.

Bucky became a sullen, moody little shit who barely got out of bed most days.

And who wants to spend their time around someone like that? Bucky doesn’t think anybody does, which is why he just wants to tell his friends to leave so he can slip the pillow over his head once more and spend his day curling up into the comfortable silence of his sequestering emotions.

“I know that,” Bucky mutters, wanting nothing more than for them to be wrong so that he can get on with his lying down. “But it’s just the way it is.”

Natasha sighs once more. “But it shouldn’t be. You don’t need to spend your entire life holed up in your bedroom because you’re afraid of what the outside is going to bring. Life is about navigating the world as best you can, because there’s no other choice.”

“Clearly there is,” Clint smirks, “but it’s not preferable. This is no way to live, Bucky, and we’re honestly getting tired of seeing you like this.”

Bucky hears these words and shrugs. “Well, that isn’t my problem.” And it really isn’t. If they don’t want to see him like this, then why do they come over? Why do they insist on coming and disturbing him for no other reason. He says as much. “If you don’t want to see me like this, stop coming over unannounced when I really don’t want you to.”

“We’re just trying to help you, Bucky,” Natasha argues gently. “This isn’t an easy situation for anyone involved. And…”

“Nat, don’t,” Clint warns. “Not now. Not while he’s still drunk and snappy.”

“So that pretty much rules out every day and night.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as they talk about him as though he’s not even there. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. No point beating around the bush, is there?”

Clint shrugs and Natasha breathes deeply.

And then Bucky hears two words he deeply regrets asking to hear.

“Steve called.”

A black haze washes over his eyes and he grips the bedsheets below him, mouth tightening reflexively.

Behind his eyes, he’s in the dream. The dream he always has when he thinks about Steve last thing at night. He can see the surroundings perfectly.

The dark woods, trees looming all around him. The wind blowing in his ears, shadows flickering around the world. Bucky walks on, feeling like he has to. There’s a force from behind him, pushing him on, telling him to go forth and explore. He looks around, searching for something to recognise, something familiar to tether him to a reality, something that makes sense. But nothing does, because this is Bucky’s fantasy life, where everything is perfect and he’s right where he wants to be: in the pit of his own feelings. The feelings that he manifested for himself by pushing…Steve…away. He has nobody else to blame, so he keeps on walking even when he could turn back. He knows that Steve is somewhere down the path, he can just feel it. Their connection is…was…that strong. But he can never find the man he loves. Because he doesn’t deserve to. This is his punishment, the twigs and sticks  cutting harshly at his feet. The bleeding doesn’t bother him, it’s easier than dealing with his feelings.

His feelings are harder to acknowledge.

Bucky recognising his own faults is easy enough, but when they directly affect someone else, that’s when it’s more difficult. That’s when things to start to blur in his mind and his palms start to sweat. The fact that his inconsistencies and mistakes hurt Steve is beyond thinking about for too long. The more his mind lingers on the fuck ups, the second chances, the regrettable actions he made, the more he becomes a recluse; retreating into the annexes of his heart, a place where such sweet sorrow becomes natural, easier to handle.

“That’s nice,” he finally croaks out, beads of sweat dripping from his head. He wipes it lazily with the back of his hand and feels himself stiffen. Natasha notices this and sighs.

“You can’t keep crawling back into yourself at the mention of his name. That’s not what progress is about.”

Bucky shivers against his will. “If that’s what progress is, I don’t want it.”

“Bucky,” Clint interjects, “you need to hear us out.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “This sounds serious.”

“He wants to speak with you,” Natasha posits gently. “You two never really talked after what happened between you.”

For whatever internal reasons, Bucky feels a spike of anger shoot up his spine. “And now he wants to talk? That’s wonderful news.” He spits, not bothering to hide his disdain.

“You have to realise that it was a different circumstance for him back then. He didn’t know what to say or how to say it.”

“And now he’s figured that out, he suddenly wants to talk? No fucking thank you. I called him so many times trying to apologise and he rejected every single one. I clogged up his voicemail with apology after apology and pleas for him to hear me out. Not once did he acknowledge that. But now that he’s ready, I’m just expected to hear him out? How is _that_ fair?”

Clint blinks, surprised. This was more words than he’d heard Bucky speak in a long time. “You hurt him, Buck. Badly. He needed time to come to terms with what had happened. Personally, I don’t think you’re entirely to blame, but he needed to do that. He needed someone to blame, just so he didn’t blame himself.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t want that. Of course I didn’t want that. That’s not how it was supposed to have happened.”

Natasha blinks. “You’ve got to see it from his perspective. It happened, he left and now he wants to talk about it, something that didn’t get to happen in the moment.”

“You mean because I didn’t let him talk about it.”

Natasha holds her hands up. “I didn’t say that. It’s just something to think about.”

Bucky nods. “I guess that’s fair.”

Clint rubs his hands together. “Well, we’ll leave you to it. Whatever ‘it’ might be.  Just try and do something productive today, Buck. For us?”

Bucky cradles the pillow to his chest and shrugs. “I’ll try.”

As Natasha follows Clint out of the window, she turns to Bucky with a smile. “So can I tell him to call and set up a meeting?”

Bucky sucks in a breath through his clenched teeth and visibly deflates as he turns his head to the photo frame.

Steve is smiling back at him, looking the happiest a person could ever be. Who is Bucky if he doesn’t keep that smile around? Who is Bucky to deny that? He doesn’t quite know who he is, but he knows that the one thing he cares most about in the entire world is Steve Rogers and no matter how much he tries to protest, he will always cave and he will always give in to anything that Steve might want, even after all this time and everything that happened between them.

Bucky nods.

“Yes.”


	2. I Can't Shake The Sting

Bucky’s still reeling from the events of the previous day.

He still can’t believe that he actually said yes to Natasha’s ridiculous proposal. He can’t _talk_ to _Steve_ , he’s too much of a disaster. He can’t let Steve see him like this. Even though their relationship problems had led Steve to seeing Bucky in the worst way possible, Bucky surprisingly has enough pride to not let it happen again if he can help it. As he rolls over in his bed, the sharp sting of last night’s vodka hits him like a train. Not a bad idea as such, just something he deals with every morning. If it helps to numb the pain, then it’ll have been worth it in the long run. He can deal with the stomach pains and the headaches and the occasional vomiting if it means he can block out his emotions for a short period of time. Anything he can do to sooth the burning ache in his heart.

When he thinks about what he agreed to with Natasha, he doesn’t expect it to be so soon.

_Set it up for today at 4, please be there and please open the door for him._

Bucky stares at his phone with wide eyes as he types back his reply. _Way to give me some warning. Are you going to be there?_

His phone beeps with Nat’s response. _Thought it’d be better if you couldn’t plan an escape. I won’t be there, giving you two the time you need to figure things out._

Bucky throws his phone onto the bed. He guesses that’s fair, but he is definitely not happy about it. Natasha completely blindsided him just on the off chance that he would see the message and not be asleep.

But he did see the message and he did acknowledge it. And all the thoughts and the feelings that are associated with laying eyes on Steve again swirl around him like water down the drain, circling and circling before finally sinking, deep into his flesh like a mosquito bite. Piercing and irritating, but something that makes him feel _anything_ , which is more than he’s felt most days for the past five months.

There are odd times when Bucky is sober and he’s reminiscing and it doesn’t hurt. It’s rare, but it happens. He’ll think of a particular date or a particular conversation and he’ll _smile_ , the feeling so alien dancing upon his lips but it’s oh so welcome and, for just a fraction of a second, Bucky begins to believe that he can be okay. A feeble belief that dies as soon as it blooms, a wounding chord severing his heart into pieces. He’s left chopped up and it’s up to the vodka to piece him back together again, ready for the next day of emotional torture and heartache.

Bucky recalls Clint’s words. _Personally, I don’t think you’re entirely to blame._ Did Clint _know_ what had happened? The way he and Steve left things, Bucky was certainly to blame. Steve knew it and Natasha knew it, too, though her intense loyalty to them both kept her from distancing herself from Bucky.

Bucky grimaces sourly as he realises that nobody knows the whole truth apart from him. He’d never given himself a chance to tell it, all too ready to accept the consequences rather than face what had happened. And maybe that was his biggest mistake all that time ago, not the incident, but the aftermath, the jagged way he had expressed himself, the flickers of hurt on Steve’s face, the way Bucky had forced himself through the explanation without giving himself away, without succumbing to the darkness of the truth.

Maybe he’ll tell Steve today.                            

Bucky snorts. Fat chance of that happening.

So Bucky does the unthinkable.

He climbs out of bed and hops straight into the shower, peeling his all too familiar clothes from his aching body. He lets the hot water rush over him, gasping as the steam grips him tightly. He thoroughly washes his hair and body, getting the grease and the stench of alcohol off him, watching quietly as it sinks down the drain and out of his life, only to be replaced by another cycle of the very same thing.

As the temperature slowly peters out, Bucky leans back against the cold wall, his finger lazily tracing patterns against the misty window. At first he writes his initials, crosses them out and writes ‘nobody’. He crosses that out and writes ‘my fault’. He crosses that out and writes five letters he hasn’t written in five months.

 _Steve_.

Like a bolt of white hot lightning, Bucky remembers why he’s doing this. If there’s a chance, even a sliver of a chance of Steve actually looking him in the eyes and giving him that stupidly adorable smile just one more time, Bucky is going to take it and he’s going to try his damn hardest not to fuck it all up like he usually does.

Bucky steps out of the shower, wrapping the towel tightly around himself. He turns back to the shower, his calligraphy still plain to see. He slips a hand into the shower cubicle and wipes it down, erasing the name that’s been bubbling on his lips since he woke.

He shaves, because it’s necessary. It’s been a while since he needed to look presentable. Since he was asked not to come back to work. Since his sister stopped showing up. Since he deemed himself too much of a disaster area to interact with people.

He’s not used to seeing himself like this. Clean-shaven, almost...back to his old self. The Bucky that would laugh regularly, the Bucky that wasn’t buckling under the weight of his own erroneous past. The Bucky that had Steve.

He shakes his head, stepping into his bedroom. He surveys it quickly, seeing the mass of food boxes and empty alcohol bottles surrounding his bed. A small part of him longs to crawl back into the relative safety of his bed, cower under the sheets and let the substances take him away from all of this, but a larger part screams at him until it echoes on a loop.

_Steve is coming._

_Do this for Steve._

_He wouldn’t want to see you like this._

While all true, that belligerent part of Bucky is angry that he has to change everything for only the possibility of Steve. There were no promises, no agreements, he doesn’t even know if Steve is going to actually show up. It could be a callous prank, a toxic revenge plan designed to target the thing Bucky wants most, only to kick it under the carpet and pin Bucky against the wall, out of reach.

But he thinks about it for a little longer and knows that isn’t who Steve is. No matter how badly Bucky fucked him up, Steve is not that kind of person. If he says he’s coming, he’s coming.

Bucky pulls on some clean underwear and sets to work cleaning.

It’s an arduous task, considering the sheer amount of maintenance Bucky has to actually do, but with every bottle he plunges into a bag, every pizza box he collects, his mind chants _Steve_ on repeat, wrapping his doubts in a tight ball, locking them away so their screams are nothing but whispers of insecurity and Bucky pays no attention to them.

A knock at the door sounds when Bucky flattens the sheets of his bed.

He jumps out of his own skin, a potent set of goose bumps rippling across his flesh. He stiffens, quickly scanning himself in the mirror.

He dressed himself in his best that isn’t formal, a nice pair of jeans with a tightly fitted polo that used to accentuate his build. But since he stopped working out and traded salad for burgers, it doesn’t have the same effect that it used to. He studies himself, lifting his shirt for appraisal. His metabolism renders his lack of exercise as non-lethal, not compared to what it could have been. He’s not fat, but his hard muscle no longer sits prominently on display. Not that Steve would care, he’s not shallow like that, but _Bucky_ cares, it’s a physical reminder of what he lost, as if the memories weren’t embedded thickly enough in his brain.

Bucky drops his shirt and races quickly into the living, seeing everything in its place.

A second knock.

Bucky’s heart is hammering in his chest, an ache forming in his neck. He forgoes every instinct and runs to the door, the promise of Steve chipping away at his darkness.

He takes a second to breath and steady himself to a sensible degree before finally, after five months of hoping, opening the door to his heart.

And there he is.

As picture perfect as ever, Bucky takes in the sight of _Steve_ , in the flesh. Not just a distant echo in a picture frame, Steve’s actually facing him, looking at him, those deep, poetic eyes meeting Bucky’s broken ones.

“Hey.”

Bucky almost can’t believe it. He can’t help the tears that well in his eyes. He can’t help the giddy sensation he feels deep in his stomach. And when he speaks, he doesn’t regret it like always. He wishes he had more steel to his voice, but he can’t muster that much confidence standing opposite the man whose life he destroyed and, in turn, destroyed his own.

“S-Steve.”

Bucky steps backwards, motioning for Steve to come in. Steve steps through the door and Bucky almost passes out. Seeing Steve in his place, where they used to sit, talking for hours, endless cycles of talking and kissing and making love until the sun came up again.

Steve’s wearing a leather jacket, one that Bucky had picked out for him and part of the latter thinks Steve had done that on purpose. Worn something Bucky would remember, either to spite him or to inspire him. Who could tell?

And Steve’s next words shock him right down deep in his core and also excite every cell in his body.

“Can I...is it alright if I...maybe hug you?”

“Yeah.” It’s all he can do at this point, just let Steve step forward, hesitate, and then wrap his large frame around Bucky’s, which seems so fragile at this point. He’s missed this more than he can describe, being tucked up safely in Steve’s arms, finally feeling complete again, like nothing can touch him, like all the demons and the hard times and the glass that shatters in his heart are rendered meaningless because _this_ is all that matters.

Steve releases him, hand lingering on Bucky’s shoulder and that point of contact means more to Bucky than anything Steve could verbalise to him. Bucky used to crave physical affection, cuddling with Steve was his favourite activity. And then the night came and swallowed him up, the type of caress he didn’t enjoy. Being cradled by his bad habits, by his loneliness, by his nightmares.

He shakes his head quickly, quite aware that he’s in Steve’s company now and he needs to pull himself together and not let himself sink into a chasm of his own dark thoughts.

“How are you doing?” Bucky asks tentatively. He shoves his hands into his pockets, noting the pregnant silence that follows.

“Not bad. You?”

“Good, yeah. Good. How about you?” Bucky curses himself once he finishes talking.

Steve smiles a little. “You already asked me that.”

“So I did. Uh, do you want anything to drink? I have water or something stronger.” Once again, Bucky says more than he means to. He can’t help his nerves at this point. His whole life hinges on this conversation. It’s a second first impression, which is infinitely more important than an actual first impression. Getting to know somebody again is almost an impossible task after something like this.

Steve narrows his eyes slightly but shrugs. “Water is fine, thanks.”

Bucky goes to run the tap, thanking his past self for cleaning the glasses. He fills it with cold water and adds precisely three cubes of ice, exactly how Steve likes it. The lingering smile on Steve’s face as he hands it to him lets Bucky know that that is still the case and Steve enjoys the fact that Bucky remembers.

“Natasha said you started drawing again?” Bucky says as they sit down.

Steve cradles his glass, finger ghosting around the rim. He sits like he’s at a job interview and Bucky completely gets it. There’s a nervous energy crackling in the air. “Yeah. Mostly just little sketches and a few light commissions, but it’s been nice. I’ve really missed it, actually.”

“I always liked your sketches. I still have some of the first ones you drew for me on napkins,” Bucky admits, regretting the singular one that he tore up the day after Steve left. It lay torn apart in the trash, but he keeps the others safely in his bedside table. He brings them out to peruse them sometimes, when he _really_ misses Steve and the picture of them isn’t enough.

Steve chuckles nervously. “How far I’ve come, huh? So what are you doing these days? Nat wasn’t very forthcoming about what you’ve been up to.”

Bucky knows he can’t lie to Steve. It’s not in his nature and Steve will see right through him, but he knows that he needs to try. Because the truth will drive Steve right out the door from which he came and Bucky doesn’t think he can stand to see Steve leave again. Not again. “Oh, I’ve just been…in between things. I have a lead on a job writing for a magazine so I’ll see where that goes.” He doesn’t. At all. He’s completely fabricating.

“Oh cool, that’s great! Which one?” Steve gives his first fully genuine smile since he stepped through the door. And the fact that it comes based off a lie breaks Bucky’s already fragmented heart even further. Like ice shooting through his veins.

“Uh, it’s a small time start up thing, nobody’s really heard of it.”

Steve nods, seeming to believe the story. “I’m really glad to hear that. You getting back into writing again, it’s really wonderful to hear.”

“Yeah, well, I thought it was time, I—.”

 “What is that?” Steve starts as he leans forward to put his glass on the table.

And Bucky hearts break because when he looks at the coffee table, it’s all over.

And Steve knows it, too.

“What’s all that on the table? Oh god, is that…cocaine?”

 _Shit. Fuck, I forgot to clean that. After going around the apartment three times, that’s the thing I forgot? Way to go, Barnes. Oh great, now he’s mad_.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself for forgetting the one piece of incriminating evidence that could clue Steve in on life without him in it.

“Uh…” _No point lying to him again._ “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

Steve’s face contorts into a painful frown. “What are you doing to yourself? You know how badly that fucks you up! Especially after everything you’ve been through in the past year, I—.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “You don’t get to talk about that.”

“What? I’m just trying to help you and look out for you, like I always do.”

“No, Steve. You don’t get to leave after everything and waltz back into my life and tell me how I should be living my life. Not after _you_ left me like this!”

Steve shoots to his feet as Bucky dusts down the coffee table. Steve looks at him in disgust, something Bucky hates more than anything. He’d rather Steve punch him than look at him like that, like he’s nothing, because that just confirms everything he thinks and feels about himself. “You know what? Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

“So why did you come here then? Natasha never explained.”

“I wanted to see you,” Steve’s voice grows tender now, he loses the anger. “I wanted to know that you were okay. Clint doesn’t tell me much.”

“So you got what you came for, Steve. I’m obviously not okay, so if that’s everything then maybe you should just go!”

Bucky doesn’t control the words as they come, the thinly veiled vitriol that spills from his mouth like acid, sizzling across the carpet as he lets the venom out. He knows that Steve doesn’t deserve them, Bucky’s the one who deserves them, but he can’t help it. He’s on the defensive. And Steve doesn’t _get_ it.

“Is that what you want?”

“You know it’s not.”

“So what _do_ you want?”

“I want you not to judge me. I want to talk about what we never did get to talk about. I want to _handle_ this.”

Steve puts his hands on his hips. “And then what, James? You go back to snorting cocaine and letting yourself go? You don’t get to do that.”

The _James_ is what breaks Bucky, what takes the patience that rapidly swells in his heart and punctures it, deflating it until it’s nothing but a regret. And the anger takes over. As it always do. And Bucky hates himself for it.

“Who are you to tell me what I can’t do, Steve? _You_ don’t get to do that anymore. Fair enough, I fucked up, I _know_ that, but you’re the one who didn’t fight for us. You’re the one who blocked my calls and _gave up_.”

Steve shakes his head. “I thought you’d gotten past that. I thought we could sit down and catch up and be okay. But apparently you’ll do anything to stop that from happening so I’m just going to leave. I don’t know if I’ll come back, that’s clearly not what you want, is it?”

“You keep leaving these decisions to me and then disregarding what I want. You’ll posit questions to me and then change your mind. Last time, Steve. What are you going to do?”

Steve turns wordlessly and leaves, slamming the door shut on his way out.

Bucky closes his eyes and the memories hit home.

_“Steve, Steve, where are you going?” Bucky races to the door. “Steve, don’t walk out, please don’t walk out. I’m so fucking sorry, okay? Please, Steve, I can’t handle being without you. You have to let us try and work it out. You have to! I can’t...Steve! Steve, no.”_

_But Steve closes the door and Bucky listens to the pattering of his footsteps down the stairs of the building. He sinks to his knees and lets the tears falls like blood down his face._

_The despair takes hold immediately, almost like that previous night when it almost ruined everything._

Bucky grits his teeth and stomps into the kitchen.

He unscrews the vodka bottle and tips it to his lips. He never bothers with mixers lately, the strength of the alcohol numbs his brain sufficiently on its own. He doesn’t need it to taste nice. He doesn’t deserve it.

He slumps onto his freshly made bed and drinks.

Drinks until he falls asleep.

He places the picture of him and Steve flat down on the surface.


End file.
